


Strange Things Did Happen

by dansunedisco



Category: Poldark (TV 2015), Poldark - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, F/M, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Mental Health Issues, Poverty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-17
Updated: 2016-10-17
Packaged: 2018-08-23 02:34:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8310466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dansunedisco/pseuds/dansunedisco
Summary: Reaping day finds Demelza up early.-Poldark + The Hunger Games AU.





	

**Author's Note:**

> and here i am entering ~the fandom~ with an AU ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

Demelza wakes early and finds her father gone -- though, she thinks, it would be more apt to say he never made it home from the tavern the night before. _Better for it_ , she thinks. His fists are less discriminate when the drink’s in him -- even more so when the spring thaw looms over them -- and she has no time for his spitting anger today. There’s a rip in her best dress that needs mending, and she’ll need to barter for trousers for Sam, who’s grown faster than a well-fed weed over the summer.

She sets about fixing breakfast. The winter past was a lean one, but she’d taken the tessarae for all eight in the house when she could. Better to increase the chance of her name being pulled from the reaping bowl in the Spring (“It’s just one day of an odd chance,” she reasoned then) than watch her family starve in the snowfall months as so many in their district did.

The porridge is just heated when the first hungry mouth comes through the kitchen. It’s the youngest of the Carnes -- Drake -- and he hugs Demelza around the waist before settling at the table with his bowl. “The others up yet?” she asks. The wood in the stove won’t last all morning and she hasn’t the time to split the logs out back.

Drake shakes his head, still rubbing at his eyes sleepily, and Demelza leans over to ruffle his shaggy hair. He is the sweetest boy -- temperament yet untouched by their father’s abuse -- and she allows them a quiet moment together before reminding him to fetch Sam before they’re late to school. The other three brothers are old enough for the mines and won’t yet be late. She knows they can spare another moment’s rest before they are needing to be up.

Once Sam and Drake are off, she pops her head into Luke’s room to wake him and the rest, and slips off to the Hob once she’s sure it’s safe to leave them to their own devices. They can’t afford to lose a day’s wages, living so tight as they are, and they need to be on their way before the last blast of the bell or else they could be turned away from work.

The morning air is brisk and biting, but refreshing all the same. She has her mother’s old jacket for warmth, besides, and she turns her face into the soft leather like the habit it is. She tries not to think of tomorrow and what it may bring -- what it _will_ bring -- but it is hard not to. Harder with each year that passes, truth be told. Demelza yearns for freedom, but there is none to be had. It will be two more years -- two more reapings -- before she will be _free_ of that burden of worry, but what of her children? Her two younger brothers? That is the point, she knows. Where there is no kindling, hope will not catch ablaze.

Garrick finds her, darting out from trees with tongue lolling out between his teeth. She gives him a solid scritch behind the ears in greeting. “I don’t have anything for you today, pup,” she tells him sadly, but her faithful companion doesn’t seem to mind her empty pockets. He sticks close to her side, all the way to the Hob.

She trades an old hairpin for a pair of trousers for Sam; the hem is long enough she can unroll them in the growth spurts to come. It’s an unfair trade to be sure, but Old Prudie waves Demelza off before Jud can come around to find a trinket in place of more practical pants. Demelza swallows her thanks, and gives a grateful nod of her head instead. The Paynters lost a boy to the games more than two decades back, and Demelza suspects Prudie’s generosity has more to do with the uncertainty of tomorrow than anything else.

With her wares bought and bartered, she begins the trek home. Though she knows she should head straight back -- her dress needs stitching and more firewood needs splitting -- she takes the long way ‘round. _There’s still hours of daylight left_. And she hasn’t given Garrick proper attention in weeks. Though the truth of her route becomes apparent as the path curves to feed through a large meadow, and behind it, set against the horizon: Victors' Village. Demelza draws in a breath. The summer flowers have long withered away from the cold, but the sight is magnificent nevertheless. Only the finest houses in the merchant district can begin to compare to the mansions the Capitol built here -- such a shame, she thinks, that all except one is unoccupied.

Garrick lopes into the fields suddenly, chasing after a wayward mouse or some other small rodent, and Demelza follows behind, all the while keeping her gaze fixed on manicured lawns and sprawling courtyards. Then, she sees him: a dark figure slumped in a sitting chair on the porch. Ross Poldark. He is the last living Victor from their district, and rarely seen. During last year’s reaping he needed an escort under each arm to settle him into his chair on stage, and he spent the majority of the ceremony sipping indiscriminately from a flask he made no attempt to hide.

“Is he dead, you think?” she asks Garrick, who came back to heel when she stopped following behind. Ross doesn’t look it, she thinks, but then -- that is how death looks, sometimes. Like sleep. Peaceful. _Just like Mama went._ As far as she knows, he has no family left. His father died the year Ross went into the games, and there’s been talk about town that his uncle and cousin have disavowed him since he returned. Would anyone visit him? Check on him? Her feet are already taking her up the hill before the thought fully forms that _she_ will be the one to tend him, and before she knows it, she is passing under the iron-wrought archway and trespassing onto lands she has no place being.

It becomes clear soon enough that the dark-haired Poldark is not dead like she feared, merely asleep -- or passed out drunk, by the looks of the bottle of amber liquid dangling from his limp fingers. She studies him for a moment, stopped short by how deceptively _young_ he looks in rest. He is only twenty-four, if memory serves her right, but a person would think him ancient from the way she’s seen him carry himself. And… _he is handsome_. Not even the long scar that runs down his temple disfigures him.

The wayward thought brings her back to her senses, and she banishes it with a forced shiver. She did not come to gawk at him, she admonishes herself. Now that she knows he is well -- or, at least, not in any harm of perishing this very second -- she needs to take her leave. And go she does, but not before drawing the thick blanket that must have pooled at his feet sometime in his slumber up under his chin. She hears him stir -- a huff of confused breath, the creak of wood under weight -- but she does not look back, not once.

 

-

 

Reaping day finds Demelza up early. Sleep was fitful the night previous, but exhaustion is no match for her chattering nerves in the morning. She tried to keep a strong face for Drake and Sam and the rest over dinner, but in her own bed, she was not so successful. Dark smudges under her eyes greet her in the looking glass, and she splashes cold water on her face to chase the last bit of tiredness away.

She draws a bath while the household sleeps, nibbling on a rather unappetizing biscuit while warming water boils in the tin kettle. The wait is worth the almost-hot bath she steps into. She scrubs under her nails with the bristle brush and washes with the lavender-scented soap she keeps hidden for special occasions. She combs her hair as gently as she can, and then plaits it into a crown atop her head. The dress she wears is light blue -- her best, and a hand-me-down from her mother.

Breakfast is already fixed by the time her brothers wake, and the only reason she doesn’t flee for the Hall of Justice by herself is so that she can hold Drake’s hand for his first procession. He is shaking from fear, a little leaf rustled by the winds, and she catches him by the shoulders to hide him from Father’s impetuous gaze.

“Everything will be alright,” she whispers, holding him tightly to her in a hug. Perhaps it will be their last, she thinks: a morbid thought, but a practical one too. Drake squeezes back, but otherwise remains silent and sniffling. Some days Demelza feels more mother than sister, wiping tears and assuaging fears as she does, but she doesn’t mind it at all. “Everything will be alright, you’ll see.”

They join the procession to the Hall of Justice, Father last among them to leave the house. The air is tense and quiet as they go, and, not for the first time, Demelza thinks them akin to cattle. Soon enough, they are joined on the path by other families; all filing out from their homes, pale and tense as they go. No one speaks during the several mile march into the town. Drake’s hand is tight in Demelza’s. He no longer quakes.

The children are herded into groups by age, and Demelza’s heart squeezes tightly when she needs to let go of Drake’s hand. _He is so small yet_ , she thinks, praying silently to whomever or whatever will listen to let this year’s Escort pass over him. Her name will have been entered forty-eight times now. Drake has one. Sam will have only two. _Please_ , she begs. _If it must be a Carne, let it be me._

“Ladies first!” their Escort booms, her voice reverberating in the courtyard. Her accent is all Capitol, lilting words that are more musical than speech, and Demelza curls her hands into fists, nails biting in her palms as a simultaneous breath is taken by the masses and held. The Escort reaches into the glass bowl. There’s a screech of acrylic against glass, then the rustle of paper unfolding...

The woman leans into the microphone and smiles, mouth wide and bright orange. “ _Demelza Carne_!”

An icy wash of emotion pours over her -- choking fear, disbelief… Every emotion running through her like lightning plays out for all in the districts to see on the screen hanging from the Hall of Justice, and Demelza gathers whatever wits that haven’t been knocked clear from her head up. _If it must be a Carne,_ she thinks, _at least it was me._ She steps out from the group of girls her age with a shuddering breath.

“No!”

Demelza half-turns to see Drake elbowing his way free, skirting around the guards that lunge to stop him. It’s only natural to return his desperate hug as he barrels into her -- in this moment, she does not care if her love shows her to be weak. She wipes her brother’s flowing tears with her thumbs, and hardens her own heart. “Be strong,” she says. It is a plea for them both.

 

-

 

Demelza formally meets Ross Poldark on the train to the Capitol. It is -- not pleasant. Whatever innocence or youth he exuded while sleeping has been since transformed into a brooding moodiness she is not sure of how to quell. So she sits, acquiescent and obedient, ready for whatever imparting words he is _supposed_ to provide her. He is, after all, her Mentor, and so surely he knows what he is doing.

He does not impart any wisdom, however. He doesn’t even speak. He merely watches her with dark, bloodshot eyes, drinking intermittently from his snifter. The scrutiny is enough to make Demelza itch between the shoulder blades. She wants to know what he is thinking -- what he is thinking _of_ her -- but she hasn’t the voice to speak the words aloud. She is a Seam girl, low born and poverty stricken. The Poldarks are merchant stock through and through. Perhaps… perhaps… _Perhaps he does not wish to help you._

Ross leans forward suddenly and drops his elbows atop his knees. “Well,” he says, his low, gravelly voice stabbing through the tense silence. “This has been _quite_ riveting.” And, with seemingly nothing more to say, he gathers himself up from his chair and swaggers from the room.

Demelza watches him go, red-faced and feeling foolish. _Perhaps nothing, Demelza Carne!_ She sat like a cowed damsel for three hours with the man, and she will not let him leave without giving her a fair fight. It’s her life on the line -- not his; _hers._ She springs from her seat and makes chase. “Sir,” she calls, placing a steadying hand against the wall of the swaying train car as she goes. The hallway between them feels impossibly long, but she is moving considerably faster than he. “Sir!”

Ross turns finally. “ _What?_ ”

She plucks up every bit of courage she has and prods her finger into his chest. “ _You_ aren’t done with me yet,” she says. “You are my Mentor and I am your Tribute and -- and you will _not_ be done with me. Not yet. You must give me a chance.” She steels herself. “Give me a chance.”

Ross’ mouth parts slightly, as if he cannot bring himself to believe that she has spoken to him in such a fashion. More like, she thinks, no one _has_. He is the dark-haired enigma, the only one returned from the Capitol in decades -- who would dare speak to the drunken man who hasn’t the time or care for anyone but himself? Demelza inclines her head, braving the intensity of his near-incredulous stare. _I’ve seen worse. I’ve handled worse._

Ross’ mouth twitches up. It is neither a smile nor a smirk, but certainly a friendlier expression than the one before it -- a tiny shaft of sunshine peeking through the storm clouds. “Not yet, then,” he says, after a long moment.

 

-

 

Demelza learns many things about Ross over the week’s worth of travel to the Capitol. He is not always drunk -- “Only half-drunk,” he says wryly, when she asks -- and he is incredibly cunning when he puts his mind to the point. The point, she soon realizes, has become her.

They speak strategy and strength at length. “Don’t bother yourself with alliances,” he says, between bites of an apple variety Demelza has never before seen. “The Careers won’t want you -- but if they find use for you, they’ll dispose of you soon enough. Can you fight?”

She plays at cracking her knuckles. “I can throw a punch.”

“Of course.” He grins, but it falls away soon enough. “No -- your best chance at survival will be _to_ survive.”

“What if the Arena isn’t survivable?” Years back, the Arena had been nothing more than rolling sand dunes and a hot, hot sun.

“Find a water source,” he parries. “Immediately, if you can. Stay away from the Cornucopia at all costs. The best of the weapons are always closest to it, but it’s--”

“Always a bloodbath, I know,” she says. She has been watching the Games since she was a girl, and always, _always_ a Tribute or two makes the mistake of diving in the fray unprepared and paying for their fool’s notion with their life. “What about my interview? I… I can’t twirl batons or -- or whatever it is we’re expected to do. I can _sing,_ I suppose, but… oh, oh, I can’t sing in front of all those people…”

There’s a strange glint in Ross’ eyes that was not there in previous days when she looks up to meet him, but it melts away with the shake of his head. “Be yourself, Demelza,” he says. “Be yourself and I will handle the rest.”

She becomes self-conscious from his words, and she leaves to fetch him another glass of brandy. “Whatever you say, sir.”

 

-

 

For as helpful as Ross has become, there are some days -- even parts of hours -- when he becomes unreachable. Demelza does not begrudge him these moments and leaves him be. Instead, she wonders if she will become like him. Quiet and contemplative, haunted by the memory of what she did to live yet another day longer; and, perhaps, wondering if it was worth it.

 

-

 

The Capitol is beyond anything Demelza could have dreamed up. It is massive, the skyline taller than any tree from home, and the _sounds:_ music and people, shouting and cars and cheering. It is almost overwhelming. The people wave for her through the train car windows and she waves back, giggling and shooting glances over her shoulder to Ross in turns.

They step off the train and onto a platform, and she is greeted by a mass of unknown faces. Some are painted in bright colors; some are twisted and morphed beyond human features. All the same they reach for her, arms outstretched, and she presses her hands out too -- fingertips touching wrists and hands and foreign skin -- stomach fluttering with nerves and excitement and wonder.

“They will adore you,” Ross said, the night before they were to reach the city.

“Why?” she asked. “I haven’t done anything. I haven’t done a single thing.”

Ross tried to explain, in the beginning, how the Capitol functions -- that consumption and novelty trumps practicality and permanence; that the Games are a source of _fun_ and the Tributes their beloved idols. Today, she understands. She is something new in their sea of plenty, and she is theirs now.


End file.
